


Breakfast Tea

by bennyslegs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fawnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/pseuds/bennyslegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fawnlock discovers tea, John realises he enjoys not being lonely any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast Tea

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a wonderful drawing on tumblr by threadear, (http://threadear.tumblr.com) which i will include in the fanfic. she also drew a beautiful picture for the end, too, which i have also included!  
> i let this one run away with me.
> 
> you might see that john calling fawnlock a 'great lump' is a reoccurring thing in the fawnlock fics i write, i just really love him calling him that :')
> 
> this isnt beta'ed, and i had a *ton* of trouble with past/present tenses in this fic for some reason, so if you see any, it's entirely my fault. oop!

(art by the amazing [threadear](http://threadear.tumblr.com))

John Watson is a firm believer that breakfast was incomplete without a good cup of tea, or two. There was nothing better than a strong brew, two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk to help dust out the cobwebs you'd collected during sleep. (Cobwebs that sometimes he'd clawed away from his face in the middle of the night, panting and heart racing, only to will himself back to sleep to let them arrange again, as if nothing had happened.)

This morning is almost exactly like every other he's had since moving into the cottage. He has his paper, a connection to the outside world he finds he relies on. The telly has days at a time where it decides not to work, but the paper never fails him. It's a few days old but no less informative, and he tuts and sighs at various articles in between sips of tea. He also has his small breakfast of Marmite on toast, and a teapot full of tea in case he wants a couple more after.

The only thing that is different from the usual is the lanky Fawn perched on the chair opposite to him, somehow managing to look regal despite munching open-mouthed on his own breakfast of toast. With his feet up on the seat, John thinks he's doing a brilliant impression of a child, but he's far too relaxed to share this opinion – and he doubts Fawnlock will even understand and he isn't really in the mood to break the morning silence just for the sake of it.

The sounds of crunching toast and chewing coming from the fawn are soothing, and John lets them wash over him - the sounds of another living thing in his home. He hadn't realised how lonely he had been until it had changed recently, and he was still getting used to it.

It takes him a few seconds of glancing over the paper to notice the sounds have stopped. He lowers his paper to see what's wrong, and find Fawnlock staring at him, toast finished.  
“Done?” he asks, obviously knowing the answer, but hoping Fawnlock will understand the question enough to reply. Fawnlock nods and John smiles, looking back to his paper. He tries to read some more but finds it hard to pick up where he left off, and wonders if it was because the noises have stopped. He tries not to think about how attached he is already, but it's obvious, however much he denies it to himself.

Fawnlock clears his throat, his favourite way of getting John's attention, so John decides the paper is now a lost cause and folds it up and places it on the table. He looks at Fawnlock who looks right back, his head cocked to the side slightly.  
“What? Do you want more toast?” The fawn was eating him out of house and home, he has to buy triple the provisions now but finds he isn't as annoyed as he feels he should be.  
Fawnlock ignores the question and looks pointedly at the cup of tea by John's elbow, half empty.  
“You want some tea?” Fawnlock's ears perk up at that, and he nods. He looks eagerly at John's cup again, making John want to laugh. His brew was the perfect temperature and he didn't want to part with it, and he wasn't about to share it with Fawnlock, who he'd seen only yesterday licking a stone that had been rained on, out in the garden. Not unless he brushed his teeth first, which was something he planned to show him very soon. Maybe today in fact. His breath was terrible.

John stands up, walks to one of the cupboards in the kitchen and pulls out a cup (he has a few cups for guests, in the rare occurrence that he might have any.) He blows the dust out of it as he walks back to the table, wondering to himself if Fawnlock would care if his tea had added dust or not. Probably not, but he does it all the same. He places it in front of Fawnlock (who is watching avidly) and picks up the teapot to pour a cup. He's glad the tea is still hot, in the time it would have taken him to boil another kettle, Fawnlock would have found something else to be fascinated with, and John wanted to see how this experiment panned out. He is thankful for the tea cosy that had been left behind at the cottage by whoever lived here before them, even if it's ugly, it did it's job perfectly. A part of him, possibly an ingrained British thing, wants Fawnlock's first cup of tea to be perfect.

He'd barely turned his back to walk towards the fridge to fetch the milk (it had to be _perfect_ ) when his heart nearly jumps straight through his ribcage at the sound of a high-pitched yelp and a smash beside his feet, the bottom of his trousers soaking and hot around his ankles.  
John takes a deep breath, turning slowly whilst trying to ignore the burning hot material on his legs.

“I should have warned you to wait first. I see that, now.” he says, taking in the sorry sight of Fawnlock who is cradling his very sore fingers to his chest. He doesn't look angry, or upset as one might expect after scalding their fingers – just curious. He looks down to his fingers and pops one in his mouth, sucking softly.  
“Come here, you great lump” says John as he takes Fawnlock by the arm and tugs him slowly from the chair and towards the sink, minding his feet for the broken china. (He doesn't need that to deal with, too.) Fawnlock potters beside him in no real hurry, but gasps when John dips his fingers under the cold tap.  
“Better?” The rumble that comes from Fawnlock's chest suggests that it is, and that's all John can go on, so he stops the tap and dries off Fawnlock's fingers with his shirt. Fawnlock watches, curious again, (constantly taking everything in and filing it away for later, John thinks) and once his fingers are dry, he takes his hands away and make his way to the table. He perches on his chair and turns towards John, waiting for him to join him.

John rustles around in one of the cupboards for a while before producing a dustpan and brush to clean up the shards. He's glad that Fawnlock was smart enough to dodge the broken china with his feet, and he wonders fondly as he kneels down to sweep up how the Fawn could be so smart with some things, (learning how to work the telly remote in under 10 minutes, and figuring out his favourite channel in under an hour) and yet be so dense with others, like knowing when something is _too hot to pick up._

A snort from Fawnlock's direction jolts John away from his thoughts and for a second he worries that Fawnlock has read his mind – but as he looks up, he sees a look of impatience on the Fawn's face that explains the noise, (“hurry _up!_ ”), despite the fact that John is cleaning up his mess.  
John takes his time purposely, and when he's done he dumps the broken bits into the bin, and walks towards the table, settling down into his chair again.

“Here,” he says, as he pushes the rest of his half-warm tea in Fawnlock's direction. Fawnlock looks at it momentarily, then grabs it (despite his sore fingers), and with a smirk that makes John wonder if he'd planned this all along in order to finish John's tea, drinks it down in one go. John watches as the Fawn licks his lips, and swallows a few times.

“Good?” Again, John knows. He can see Fawnlock's pleasant smile, his tongue poking out to lick at the corners of his mouth. He just wants him to say it. Say anything. The more he reacts, replies, talks, the more John feels like he's living with some _one_ , not some _thing_. He's finds he looks forward to the future where they might have conversations, discussions. He wonders if Fawnlock's ever been in any fights. He certainly has a few scars here and there and John's embarrassed to admit to himself that he'd been looking. He's curious as to whether Fawnlock would want to know about the war. He isn't sure whether he's excited or scared at the idea of talking about it. Probably a mixture of both.

Fawnlock nods a couple of times before sniffing the empty cup. John thinks about pouring him another one, but isn't too crazy about the idea of introducing Fawnlock to sugar/caffeine any more than he already has, and wouldn't put it past Fawnlock to grab a hot cup again, just to see if it still hurt as badly as it did last time.  
“Good.” Fawnlock repeats, as he scans the table. Before John's eyes can catch up to where Fawnlock's looking, he's already grabbed the rest of John's toast and stuffed it greedily into his mouth.  
“You great pig, I hadn't finished that. You had your breakfast, and the rest of my tea. You're like a bottomless pit, where does it go?” Fawnlock munches as he looks up wide eyed at John, ears pointing to the ceiling, the look of pure innocence.

“I know you know what 'mine' means, it's one of your favourite words. Maybe I'll teach you the word 'sharing' today, would you like to learn more words today?” Fawnlock looks at him, and swallows. He then gets up from the table and makes his way to his small collection of things he's been keeping on the window sill above the sofa. John sighs and supposes that's Fawnlock's way of saying no, and goes back to his paper.

When he's finished the paper front to back, he looks up to find Fawnlock is spread out on the sofa, snoring softly, his chest rising slowly. His legs are dangling over the arm awkwardly, with one hand curled on his chest, the other draped over and laying of the carpet, fingers out-spread.

John racks his brain but can't think of a time he'd seen Fawnlock so relaxed and comfortable, and the sight of it makes him grin and almost _proud_. Fawnlock is endless energy, a constantly curious thing, and seeing him like this is a sight John hopes he'll get used to. He's very fond of the great lanky thing, but being kept up half the night some nights was exhausting him. He was never bored, though. Silver lining and all that. He just liked to pick his breaks when he wanted them, and Fawnlock didn't understand the politeness of being quiet when the person you're staying with _needs to sleep_.

John gets up from the table and collects the plates and cups quietly, whilst looking over at the Fawn to see if he stirs. His ears flick a couple of times, and he huffs in his sleep before lifting up his arm from the floor and wrapping it around himself. John puts the washing up in the sink and then makes his way to the cupboard and pulls out a thin duvet. He curls it over the Fawn and makes sure that his feet are covered. (mostly for himself, he hated to see uncovered feet, even if he knew Fawnlock probably barely felt anything on them any more from years of walking in the woods) He tucks it up to Fawnlock's shoulders who hums in appreciation, curling the duvet around him as he burrows his face into the sofa cushions.

John reaches out and momentarily reconsiders, before dropping his hand to Fawnlock's mess of curls and dragging his fingers through them softly. The fawn all but purrs. They stay there for a few moments, John focusing especially on the scalp around the Fawn's antlers where he seemed to be especially sensitive, before John's shoulder aches at him for keeping his arm out at the angle, and he straightens up. Fawnlock is out like a light, his snoring heavier now, and John smiles to himself.

If this is what half a cup of warm tea does to the Fawn, John wonders with a fond smile what a shot of brandy would do.


End file.
